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Home Rule 

sing the local songs." Properly distributed, he says, there 
is room for a hundred poets, one for each million inhabi- 
tants. This is a good deal like the dream of the proper dis- 
tribution of wealth, but it is a good dream nevertheless. 
Meantime, however, I wish we could count on an audience 
of one million for a hundred poets, whether they are "snug- 
gling in imitation Latin quarters" or planted out in the 
western cornfields. I wish we could boast that much. 

A. C. H. 



Dear Poetry: A propos of your aboriginal number, 
don't you think the red man will be a motive of ever in- 
creasing importance in American art? Undoubtedly some 
day we shall have a truly American music, painting, and 
literature ; and who shall doubt that the red man will infuse 
his genius into it? I believe in both the rise and fall of man. 
Primitive races, not having fallen so low as is possible under 
civilization, may be nearer to art, closer to the universal 
creative spirit, than we. The greatest discoveries in biology 
have been made from a study of the lowly forms of life. 
The Indian instinctively appreciates color, line, rhythm and 
tone, which constitute the alphabet of art. 

May I offer a few notes, which should have been printed 

last month to explain certain phrases in my poems? 

South Star Trail means the Milky Way, which is the path of de- 
parted spirits. Tiraiva is the Great Spirit, the deity. 


POETRY: A Magazine of Verse 

Sa-a-Narai means, "In old age walking the > beautiful trail." In 
this poem : Red Moccasin is a name for the dove, because of its 
red legs; Shagivahioa is the mocking-bird; eye-strings are the 
optic nerves ; standing within me refers to one's conscience. Also, 
certain lines refer to the myth of the First Mother, who ordered 
her bones burned and her flesh buried : tobacco sprang up from 
the bones, for the good of man's soul ; and corn from the flesh, 
for the nourishment of his body. 
The poem Night is built on the rhythm of a corn-grinding song 
of the pueblos : 

Lovely, see the cloud, the cloud, appear ; 
Lovely, see the rain, the rain, draw near. 

Who spoke? 
'Twas the little corn ear 
High on the tip of the stalk, 
Saying, while it looked at me, 
Talking aloft there, 
"Ah, perchance the floods, 
Hither moving, 
Ah, may the floods come this way — 
Wonder-water !" 

Frank S. Gordon 


Dear Poetry: I really mean this! 


Poetry, I would die for you. 
If you were recruiting armies 
I should not need conscription, 
But gladly I would go to your banners, 
And pin my heart against the bayonet of a foe, 
Or suffocate, drowning in floods of gas 

Or tangle my guts in barbed wire. 
Any death, Poetry, for you — 
But your demands of service are so difficult. 

Helen Hoyt